


Lover's Rain

by cirque



Category: Alexander Trilogy - Mary Renault
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-02-27
Updated: 2012-02-27
Packaged: 2017-10-31 20:00:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,282
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/347830
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cirque/pseuds/cirque
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Set after 'Silently, My Love'; a short snipped of their relationship told from Hephaistion's POV, as Alexander lays sleeping.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Lover's Rain

_My Alexander._ He tried those words for size, watching for any sign of an answer. On his dusted cloak before him, Alexander sighed in sleep, his golden hair trembling on the early evening breeze. Their love had been throwaway, carefree, no thought for his heart, which Alexander danced upon like the deer he loved to hunt. He had taken Hephaestion’s hands in his, kissed away the tears he tried to fight, and his words had fallen upon deaf ears. Minutes, hardly hours, they had spoken for, and now Alexander lay strewn across the ground before Hephaestion’s crossed legs, unknowing of the torment in his mind. Truly, _his_ Alexander?

 

 _My brother._ Clouds rolled in from the Illyrian west, sluggish and heavy on the breeze, and Hephaestion shivered in his loose chiton. Only the best for the triumphant soldier’s return, he had thought that morning, but now he regretted his choice of clothing. Alexander had no comment for this pressed garment; his blurred eyes had barely passed it a glance. His eyes, the very shade of olive he remembered, sought beyond his clothes, and the new chiton went unnoticed. They would quarrel, if Hephaestion brought it up.

 

Seven months. Too long. He sighed, and watched Alexander’s fingers twitching on the ground. His eyes slipped over the long scratch across his palm, burning white in the sundown light, the sole reportable marker of his first battle. Those inside, etched on the dark hollows of his soul, were for Hephaestion’s eyes only. His eyes travelled to Alexander’s curved thumb, roughened by the raised burn mark from a childhood dare, older than their friendship. New scars patterned his littered skin, a scrape across his fingertips, bite marks from some eastern encounter, and Hephaestion’s stomach panged to imagine him alone in battle, without his most loyal companion. What pains might have been avoided, or else soothed in the calm of night…

 

 _My lover._ His eyes wandered, and found the discarded letter, crumpled on the floor beneath the weight of their bare feet. He had called, Alexander had answered, and their love had been restored. It may easily have been a game, a re-enactment of their boyish unease. Dancing around the subject, their hands barely touching, until they collapsed on the floor, exhausted of the riddles, and pressed their two hearts together.

 

He’d still cocked his head, on one side, eternally confident. Blessed by the gods. They had told Hephaestion stories of the divine little prince in Pella when he had been a small boy, and his heart had quickened to think that one day he might lay eyes on this fabled child. Now, his heart hung heavy with knowledge and secrets. How could they be equal, if he could never match the gods’ blessings? How could Hephaestion ever hold his hand, when Eros himself had gripped those fingers from the beginning?

 

In the house, Hephaestion knew, advisors and generals would be awaiting his return, their hands clutched to their sword-belts in anxiety. They did not like it when Alexander disappeared from the house without notice, and their minds were always quick to place Hephaestion at fault. He smiled ruggedly, for at least this time he did not mind the blame. No doubt, they had business for him to attend to; a newly returned king was a busy one. His heart swelled a little, uncomfortably, to think that such a king, so pressed by war affairs and politics, had placed him, Hephaestion, above everything. They must part soon.

 

 _My king._ Battle and perseverance had taught Hephaestion not to cry, but his lowered eyes ached with sadness regardless. The sleeping angel, his sharp features burnt as if into stone, dreamt on unawares. Above, the clouds rumbled, an omen for what Alexander would face when he returned to the house. Rain pitter-pattered in place of the tears that Hephaestion could not cry, melted themselves onto his tanned cheeks and trickled into his slightly open mouth. The gods had rent themselves on rifting them apart. Hephaestion would hold his breath until the next time, and the rain could cry out his sorrow.

 

The ground began to saturate as the rain became more fervent. Alexander tossed in sleep and Hephaestion took his arms, shaking him gently awake. He had often treasured the precious moments in which the king fluttered up from dreams, and this time was no different. The delicious spread of confusion across the soft features, the crisp of the intense brow, the blurry defenceless innocence to the widening eyes, staring up at him questioningly. He would frown vividly, frightened at being woken thus, but would calm instantly when he saw the comfort in Hephaestion’s steady eyes. Hephaestion delighted at having the king’s trust in this way. Wars could be waged over his honour and whims, and yet still he would look to Hephaestion when night fell.

 

“How long did I sleep?” His voice was thick, and he coughed gracelessly.

 

Hephaestion laughed, king or no king, and shrugged. “Not long. Will you go back now?”

 

Alexander ran his fingers through his mussed hair and yawned heavily. Mid-yawn, he said, “I must. I shouldn’t have fallen asleep. Why didn’t you wake me?” He wasn’t annoyed, and Hephaestion sank back onto his elbows with a mysterious smile.

 

The king towered above him, packing the bowl of grapes into the leather pouch he had carried. A small handful of grapes remained, and he passed them down to Hephaestion absently. Court matters possessed his mind, once woken.

 

“I’ve a meeting with some Mycenaean generals - and the satrap from Bactria, -” he continued rattling off the names of people Hephaestion knew only from the policy books. He yawned pointedly, and Alexander halted long enough to laugh. “I’m sorry, we came here to escape these matters, and yet it’s all I can talk about.” He snagged the cloak from the floor, whipped it against his bare knees and watched, with dizzying awe, the dust plumes shooting off it. Hephaestion felt his stomach turn to ice, as the slow smile overtook Alexander’s grimy face. Stones rattled from the folds of the _chlamys_ , smattered about their sandaled feet, and smacked into newly formed rain puddles. Alexander held it out to Hephaestion:

 

“Here, you take it. Though it’s a little wet.”

 

He took it, keen to wrap the material that Alexander had warmed in sleep about his shoulders. “What would the satrap of Bactria think, to see you approach bare armed?”

 

The king caught the smile, and offered nothing in response. The rain fell heavier, became a full storm, and its relentless force began to pain Hephaestion’s mind as it cascaded. In the sheltered fence of the grove, rain slapped noisily against wet leaves, the _menthe_ scent of it rushing to Hephaestion’s head. The grove had proven as beautiful as he remembered it from boyhood and he thought, with a quick glance to Alexander, just as enjoyable. There was nothing more peaceful than the knowledge that no one knew where you were, he thought. Alexander caught him looking and made a face.

 

“I’ll see you tonight, at the supper tables?”

 

Hephaestion nodded: if there was one thing guaranteed to get him interested in court, it was its princely mealtimes.

 

Alexander echoed the nod, rested his head to one side and, after a moment of delicious thought, began to walk briskly towards the house, skirting through the close trees.

 

Where he lay on the ground, slowly becoming drenched through with water, Hephaestion sighed repeatedly, swallowing back his sorrow with painful force. Alexander’s footsteps became drowned by the beating rain, and it was mere seconds before Hephaestion’s tears flooded out onto his cheeks. _His_ Alexander, certainly.

 

 _You’re mine_ , his pulse sang, _and nothing more._


End file.
